Hope is the Thing with Feathers (OQ, post 6x01)

She doesn’t notice them at first. Or rather, she doesn’t think anything of them at first. But she notices, of course she notices, the single robin feather on her windshield, resting against her wiper in a smattering of other leaves brought down by last night’s rain. Damp and a bit mangled, she lifts it away from the slowly drying leaves plastered to the glass, smoothes its edges a bit and slips it into her pocket. She wipes away the rest of the debris, and tells herself it’s okay to keep silly, sentimental things that remind her of him. And if she slips her fingers into her coat pocket and feels the soft edges of it now and then, well, nobody needs to know.

She notices the crow’s feather, too—dark and inky black as it rests on the step of her family mausoleum. It must have been a big bird. Majestic. She’s always liked crows, and not just for the image. They’re smart. Loyal. She lifts the feather, carries it with her down into the depths of her vault, setting it aside in an empty nook. When she leaves for the night, she feels the inexplicable need to take it with her, finally putting it to rest safely in her bedside table.

Then there’s the swan feather resting on the bench near the duck pond. She and Henry have come for a quiet walk, a moment of peace. He’s getting so grown up, so perceptive, but he still enjoys the way the ducks flock around his feet when he scatters a heel of stale bread. She watches, smiling wistfully, trying to memorize every changing angle of her little boy’s face, and then she sits back, her palm settling on the worn wood of the bench beneath her. Their bench, she tries not to think. Hers and Robin’s. She tries not to, but she can’t help it, her heart clenching, her fingers clenching, too, and it’s not until then that she realizes there’s something other than wood under her palm.

She lifts the delicate white feather with a little frown, runs a finger through the downy softness at its base. It’s odd, she thinks. She’s never seen swans at this particular pond before. Not once in thirty years. Her newly hopeful heart whispers something overly sentimental about happening on a feather so out of place, in this place, just as she’s thinking of him, but she tells herself not to be silly. When she settles it next to the stark blackness of the crow’s feather later that evening, she thinks it’s fitting. Light against dark. It feels like them. Silly, but it does, and nobody has to know the things that she takes comfort in. The frivolous, hopeful, ridiculous things.

She dreams of him that night, of his death. Dreams of it often, honestly. So often, in fact, that she’d gone quietly to Maleficent, and procured herself a tiny vial of sleeping draught. One drop in her tea before bed and she’ll sleep the dreamless sleep of a babe, she’s been told. She hasn’t used it yet. She doesn’t sleep well, but she’s a masochist: she’d rather see the blue tinge of his soul, that soft smile he left her with, dissolve again and again than spend a night in empty blackness. She misses his face.

But she wakes tired, wakes terribly, bone-crushingly sad, and it’s all she can do to go through the motions of her morning. She steps out onto her walk, fumbles her keys, and they drop to the pavement and land right next to her black, pointed-toe pump. And the blue jay feather it’s resting on. She jerks her foot back like it’s crushed something precious (stupid, silly), and bends to pick it up. It’s small, with its white tip and its stripes of dark and blue. She thinks of the blue of his soul, wipes a traitorous tear, and slips this one into her pocket, too. The robin’s feather still rests there, and she finds herself reaching for them almost compulsively whenever she wears the coat. Soft reassurances. Could it be him? A sign, maybe, that he’s not dissolved into nothing after all. That he’s somewhere, beyond, peaceful. Watching over her.

She’s never believed much in guardian angels, helpful fairies, departed souls that keep watch. It had been too painful to think of someone standing by and watching over her terrible life and doing nothing. But she stands in this clearing waiting for the others to arrive, draws the blue feather out and studies it again, dares to whisper, “Is it you?”

Twenty minutes later, she’s standing with Snow, and David, and Emma, as a cardinal feather floats down from the sky and manages to tuck itself right into Snow’s hair. Regina laughs until she’s wiping tears, her heart feeling ridiculously light all of a sudden. Robin would, she thinks. He’d think it was funny – probably wouldn’t laugh as outrightly as she had, but he’d find it funny. When she manages to catch her breath, they’re all staring at her like she’s gone halfway round the bend, and she supposes it must look that way. Regina shrugs a little, says, “It struck me funny,” and reaches to pluck the feather from Snow’s fingertips.

The less hopeful part of her, the cynical darkness that wasn’t quite evil enough to be sucked out in the split, whispers Coincidence to her as she sets the cheerful red feather with its black and white friends, leaves the robin feather, too (she keeps the blue in her pocket; it feels special, somehow). She places a ward over them, protection for her little treasures, and shuts the drawer again. It could be a coincidence. But she’d asked, and she thinks he answered. She chooses to hope that he had.

And she starts to notice the feathers, now. Starts to really look for them.

The brightest colors seem to appear during her darkest moods. Tucked into her driver’s side mirror, resting on the back porch rail, the outer sill of her office window. Reds, and blues, a surprising violet that she doesn’t recognize. The robins when she’s feeling most discouraged. She thinks they’re a bit plain for him, and then she realizes that no, they’re just right. Robin had never been flashy. He’d been steady and grounded, a man of the earth and the forest. The simplicity of the robin’s feather is fitting. The stark inkiness of the crows find their way to her when she needs strength, and she finds it odd that he would send these – her bird of choice then, the messengers of the Evil Queen. Now that she’s rid of her (sort of), she wonders if there’s some deeper meaning to him handing her darkness when she feels weakest.

She has a moment, a panicked moment, where she wonders if maybe these feathers aren’t from Robin at all. Maybe they’re from her, the Queen, the one person who knows her best, who is her, who knows her weaknesses, knows exactly how traitorous her hopeful heart can be. How easily she could be sucked into this ruse. Maybe he really is gone forever, destroyed, maybe she’s just a fool. But how could the Queen know? About her moods, her thoughts. How could she know when Regina feels lowest. It must be Robin; it has to be.

She sleeps restlessly again, dreams of him dying again, again, again, and wakes with the first light of dawn. Wakes to the scent of pine and wood sap and smoke, not a memory or a dream, but not real either. She breathes in the familiar smell, eyes still closed against the slow orange glow of morning, and imagines he’s just stepped away from his camp for a moment. Just stepped away from a cheerfully warm fire. Maybe for a stolen moment with her, maybe… maybe. There are tears on her lashes when she blinks them open, and she brushes them away, sits, runs her fingers through her hair, and hopes for another blue jay this morning. Hopes it will feel like the last one, reassuring and light, and not full of doubt and desperation.

And then she turns her head and her breath catches. There on her bedside table rests her collection of feathers. They’d been safely stashed inside the drawer when she fell asleep, protected with a charm that she’d finally managed to tweak enough to keep out her evil other half, but there they sit. Fanned out and arranged by size as best they can be, the smaller ones on the outsides and in the middle. It’s a bit crude, but it’s unmistakably a heart. Her eyes well with a fresh flood of tears as she reaches over, brushes her fingertips along the smallest feather. She can still smell him, the fading scent of tall pines and fresh air, can feel a buzz like ozone in the air, and as her fingers touch the silky softness of the feather she feels the clean clarity of certainty wash over her.

They’re no trick, no ruse. No manipulation.

They’re gifts. Little hellos. Little I-love-yous.

She wipes tears from her eyes, conjures a square pane of glass and clears off the rest of the nightstand before covering the feathers carefully. They’re pretty like this, and she likes the idea of waking every morning to his reassurances like those mornings she got to wake to his kisses.

When she takes her coffee out to the back porch later that morning, there’s a blue jay feather resting on her favorite chair, and she smiles.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

And Straight on Til Morning

Sneak Peek of something I have in the pipeline 

“Show yourself before I set fire to the earth you stand on.”

Her eyes shot to the rustling foliage as her nostrils flared with the thrill of a possible fight, fire burning at her fingertips and a thirst for blood thrumming through her veins as she awaited her predator’s attack. She was exhausted, her feet were swollen and blistered in her boots and her neck was aching something terrible from countless nights spent sleeping on the ground and studiously ignoring both the Charmings and Emma for fear that she would soon kill them all - she was in no mood.

In all honesty, she was hoping to find either Pan or one of his vicious four-foot cronies hiding behind the shrubbery but instead she was surprised when, rather timidly, an even smaller boy appeared before her.

His hair was wild, curls ragged and matted with dirt, his cheeks were smudged with mud and his clothes were ripped and frayed. He carried nothing other than a small tattered teddy that was clutched in a tight palm, its legs dragging on the ground with each small step the child took. Dark eyes were on her hand and the fire still burning bright within and so, after a moment of staring rather dumbfoundedly at the boy, she closed her fist and extinguished the flame with a growing frown.

He didn’t look like one of Pan’s boys but she was no fool to Neverland’s ways, the land itself as terrible and manipulative as its leader so she moved no closer to the child but instead kept her eyes trained upon his, her head tilted in her studying.

“You can do magic?”

His little voice tugged at her heart, at the mother inside of her who ached to call him over and wipe away the tears she could see glistening on his cheeks but if he was nothing more than a decoy, an illusion sent to leave her vulnerable to attack then she would never find her Henry and that was something she couldn’t risk. “I can,” she replied calmly and evenly, still watching him for signs of sudden movement but he simply stood and stared up at her with a quivering lip as he chewed at his thumb.

“My papa said that magic is bad,” he told her, his voice growing tight and his eyes watering. She guessed it to be at the mention of his father though she couldn’t say for sure as her head tilted even further, her brow furrowing as her eyes narrowed slightly because he didn’t seem to be a shapeshifting sprite nor could she detect any new magic in the air.

Regina took a cautious step closer to the boy, breathing steadily with hands ready by her side as she asked “and where is your papa?”

His bottom lip wobbled once more as fresh tears trailed from his unblinking eyes, “in the ‘chanted Forest”

Her ears perked at that, at the mention of a home that had once been her own. She softened both her stance and her demeanour a little when she asked “and why isn’t he here with you?”

“The man said that the shadow only comes for children,” he explained tearfully, “he told me to say some words and when it came I’d be okay but I wasn’t…” he was crying in earnest now, his cherubic face scrunched with distress as he told her “he took me from papa.”

“Why did the man want you to call for the shadow, sweetheart?” she couldn’t help the endearment as much as she couldn’t help but walk closer to him, her own expression sympathetic for his little cries were unbearably sad.

He hiccuped as he moved to speak, bringing the hand not holding his teddy up to rub at his eye before managing “he wanted to get to his Henny.”

Her blood ran cold at that, her lips parting on a gasp as she froze in place - Neverland suddenly felt a lot colder. “Wh-what,” she coughed lightly to clear her throat as she lightened her voice in attempts not to frighten the boy even more, “what was the man’s name?” and when the child only continued to cry, sniffling, she asked “was it Neal?”

“Yeah!” he seemed to perk at that and instantly she was dropping to her knees before him, this child was not dangerous but he was most certainly lost. And Neal was alive?

“Oh, sweetheart. How long have you been here?” she asked, unsure of how to comfort the boy without frightening him though she was encouraged by the way he seemed to shuffle a little closer to her so that the toes of his tiny brown boots were half an inch from touching her knees.

He shook his head, his bottom lip pulled out in the most heartbreaking of pouts “I don’t know,” before he was trembling and falling into her open arms, “I wanna go home!”

“I know, little one” she soothed, holding him to her with an arm around his waist and a hand in his hair as she rocked them slowly from side to side in the hopes of comforting him, “so do I.”

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Regina takes Hyde’s potion and splits herself while on a dangerous mission in NYC.  She comes back to Storybrooke.  But in this story, Robin never died.

“You should have told me,” he says again into her ear as he holds her tightly, “you should have talked to me before you did this.”

“Robin…” she tries not to sound exasperated and frustrated, but she knew this was coming, saw it in the eyes the moment she returned from New York and Emma had bluntly announced to everyone at Granny’s that the Evil Queen was gone for good, and no longer would the town suffer because of the bad karma aimed in her direction.

There had been slight confusion, but when everything was explained, there was congratulations, toasts, and celebration.

She felt…different.  Light.  Free.  Proud.  But her soulmate, the person who should have rejoiced the most, wore an empty smile that was replaced with a worried frown in moments when he thought she wasn’t looking.

She squeezed his hand that night, hands lingering on his wrists, whispering a quiet “You okay?”

He nodded slowly, and then looked at her with those eyes, those expressive eyes that communicated such worry, such concern, such sadness.

“What is it?” she had asked, but he only kissed her head told her we’ll talk about this later.

Later, it seems, is now.

“I love you.  All of you, Regina.” She can’t see his face as he spoons her, but she knows him well enough to picture it, to see his eyes burrowing into her soul, deep and honest.

“You don’t.  Not my past.  Not this evil part of me.” She shudders a bit, thinking of what if? What if the Evil Queen had met Robin Hood, all those years ago.

She feels the rage, the anger, the untempered hurt that poured off her body back then, rage at anyone who came too close.  Anyone who tried to care.  Anyone who dared to make her feel that she could be….not that.  Robin would be one of those people.

Would The Queen feel something when she looked in his eyes?

Would she kill him, just because he made her feel emotions she saw as soft and weak?

It had scared her, more than she ever realized, that force inside her that was afraid to be happy, determined to crush every opportunity to claw her way out of the pit of darkness she fell into.

“Of course I love that part of you.  I love every part of you.” His voice is breaking, and oh he sounds near tears, what has she done?  She tries to turn in his arms, to see his face, but he holds her steady, shaking his head into her hair steady.

She understands.  Sometimes, it’s easier to say these things to the back of someone’s head.

“You may think you did, but she was dark, and without mercy.  And cruel.  And I always had to fight her, fight that part of me bubbling to get out.”

“It made you all the more incredible,” he said, his voice straining, “that you fought back from that place, and here you were, this beautiful, caring, strong, loving woman.”

“You think I’m weak without my evil side?”  She holds on to the word strong  and the past tense of his words, and she worries, because Regina Mills is not weak.

“Never, I doubt you were weak from the moment you breathed your first breath in the world,” he maintains steadily, stroking her cheek with the back of his palm, “the fact you never lost that strength was part of what captivated me.”

“I’m a better person now,” she says steadily, “a person you deserve.  The person I was when I walked out of that bar.  That person deserved you, and deserved a family.  The Evil Queen does not..”

“No,” his rasps, his fingers comb through her hair like he knows he likes, gentle, smooth drags across her scalp, “you are my soulmate because of everything you are, not everything you did.  If I ever made you feel like you had to do this for me— “

“I did, but now how you think,” she says, and she feels his hands freeze around her, his breath stop, so she amends, “I almost lost you.  I almost lost Henry, so many times, and Emma, and the entire town.  Dangers keep coming to us, keep targeting us.  I had to stop it.”

He breathes a little sigh of relief then.  

“And how are you so sure these dangers we face are your fault?” he asks.  He slides a hand down her arm, coasting over her palm and lacing his fingers in hers, then drawing it up for a kiss.

“Whose else could it be?” she  asks, “No one has luck this bad, I just…I can’t keep seeing you get hurt.  I needed to do it, Robin.  I am so afraid everyone I love will be taken away from me because of what I — what she did.”

“I don’t believe fate would attack your loved ones because of your past acts,” Robin soothes, “my darling, what horrible thing did you do to cost Daniel his life?  When you were the daughter of a miller’s daughter, with only a dream of being free?”

There is no answer.  She doesn’t know.  

“Do you think you did something horribly rotten in the womb for which deserved to suffer so much at a young age, to be practically sold into a marriage against your will?”

His tone is not mocking, not angry, just calm and soft.

“Not something I did,” she admits, and oh there it is.

“Regina,” he finally motions her to turn in his arms, but now it’s she who doesn’t want to turn, doesn’t want to look into his eyes.

And yet, when she turns she cannot help to look into those beautiful eyes and let him kiss her on the forehead and the tip of the nose.  

“Evil isn’t born, it’s made,” he recites, and oh, how is it he holds those lessons for just the right time, “There is no part of you that is evil.  No part of you I don’t love.  No part I want removed from your heart, and your soul.”

Tears fall.  She hates that.  She tries hard not to cry around people, even Robin. Many people think her a sociopath, that she doesn’t have real emotions, and there was a time she wished that were the case.  She feels everything.  Spends way too much time worrying, crying, and hurting.  More than anyone should ever know.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she admits, wrapping her arm around him and crashing her head into her chest, “my past keeps coming to haunt me.  You almost died in Camelot and the Underworld because of who I am.”

“I’ve almost died more times than I can count,” he scoffs, “I almost died defending Marian from Nottingham, was that because of who she was?  People will always threaten those who seek to protect others.  And that’s what you are now.  A protector.  As am I.  Our life is dangerous.  But it’s a life worth living.”

“I just wanted her gone,” she breathes.

“I know, darling, I know.”  He rubs her circles across her back, drawing patterns all around, meant to soothe, to calm.  “How are you feeling, truly?”

“I’m…it will pass,” she says, the anxiety, the uncertainty.  The feeling of being lost…it’s there, but it will pass.

“What is it?”

“It’s nothing, Robin.”

“Please don’t shut me out.” He cups her chin and draws her head up, “you’re everything to me, Regina.”

She feels her heart kicking almost out of her chest, swallows hard and begs the lump in her throat to disappear.  He has that way of saying so much with so little.

She pulls at his shirt and brings him in, lifting her head to crash her mouth into his, salty tears coat her lips, and his tongue swipes across them, to taste, or to dry them, she does not know.  

She takes a moment to close her eyes and feel, and when she opens them, he’s close, so close he’s hard to look in the eye, but she can still feel the look he’s giving her, begging her to answer the question.

“I just feel…” she wavers, “imbalanced.  I’ve lived with the darkness for so long, I don’t know who I am without it.  I want to be this new person I just don’t know how to be anyone but me, and I’m…”  she sighs, and then breathes the words she doesn’t like to admit.  “I’m afraid.”

“You’ll find yourself again,” he assures, “and I am here to help.  Always.”

She nods and tucks herself into his embrace, letting him rub her back and hold her.

“That’s it, darling, it’s been a long day.” he whispers into her ear, “just relax now. I have all faith in the world in you to get through this and any other obstacle in your way.”

Right before she drifts off she realizes something, and it shocks and hurts her,

“Soulmates…” she utters.

“What, my love?”

“Did I ruin this for you, did i break our connection?  Does it feel…different?  Now that my soul is altered, did it…”

He chuckles then, and she feels the steady small vibration as it bubbles out of his chest.  It feels…wonderful.  And she breathes a sigh of relief even before he assures her with words.

“I couldn’t love you any more if I tried.  You did nothing to alter the way I feel.”

He kisses her lips briefly and she smiles, hums in satisfaction and whispers a thank you  and an I love you too.

But he can’t let it just end on a sweet, sappy note.  Otherwise he wouldn’t be Robin.

“Though I guess it’s a good thing you killed your evil half,” he chides, “It would be very confusing for me to be stuck between two soulmates.  Especially two soulmates who look like you.  And of course, the queen loves those corsets…”

She rolls her eyes and punches him lightly before settling against him for a few hours of precious sleep.

She will need it.  The darkness of her past is looming and circling and plotting and planning in ways she does not know.

But she and Robin and all the others she’s come to love and rely on  will face it.  Together.

The One Where Regina Makes Out With Everybody

for @storiesseldomtold who sent me the prompt: DO SOME NASTY SPIN THE BOTTLE SHIT PLEASE LET EM ALL MAKE OUT LIKE ANIMALS IN HEAT, thank u xx

And for the amazing @ginaandrobbie on her birthday, who I love with all my heart. You’re a ray of sunshine, and I hope this story makes your day as bright as you always make mine ❤️ Happy 21st you old coot. 

FF.net | Word count: 3,140 | Rated T for Tongue

“Would you two get off of each other?” Regina shouted from the kitchen doorway at Emma and Hook - who were so tangled together you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began - and they quickly jumped apart, both a little red and disheveled from their quick lip lock while everyone had left the room.

“Were they kissing again?” David groaned as he handed Robin a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard.

“Oh I wouldn’t call that kissing, too much heavy petting for that.” Regina rolled her eyes. “They’re like animals in heat.”

“I heard that!” Emma yelled.

“Good! Get a room!”

“Gladly,” Hook muttered, not quite low enough to keep from floating to the other room, and David choked on his drink.

“Not likely!”

Regina laughed devilishly as she slipped back into the living room, tilting on weak knees from one too many glasses of whiskey or rum or whatever it was they were giving her to drink. She plopped onto the couch opposite Emma and Hook, spilling some of her drink on her lap and shouting a loud “oh fuck” as she clumsily wiped at her damp pants.

“A little too drunk, your Majesty?” Emma teased, earning her a stern cocked brow from Regina.

“As if you’re much better, necking with the pirate when your parents aren’t looking. You’re acting like teenagers.”

“Oh I promise we’re not,” Emma assured her, “This isn’t Seven Minutes in Heaven or Spin the Bottle.”

“What are those?” Snow asked as she followed David and Robin to their seats.

“They’re games teenagers play, they revolve around making out with each other.”

“Sounds fun,” Hook joked, winking at Emma when she grinned and shook her head.

“It does,” Regina added, and the groggy, stiff wheels in her head started to turn through the pools and pools of liquor swirling around her mind. The world felt dizzy, as if she was sitting on water, rocking with invisible waves. This may not be her best idea, but to hell with it, if Emma could make out with Hook, she could damn well make out with someone too.

“Let’s play it.”

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There is something so extremely satisfying about the way Regina says “I chose to go”.

She literally always had little to no say in things happening in her life: marrying Leopold, becoming a queen, being separated from her sister the moment she found her when she was young/losing the memory of it happening, her so called “soulmate”. Even adopting Henry, she didn’t choose to adopt the Savior’s son (but of course that’s the best thing that happened to her because she loves her little prince more than her own life.)

But she CHOSE this thing! She chose to go to the underworld, even knowing too well what/who she was going to face there.
And of course there is the Swan Queen cherry on top that she chose to go there for Emma. 😭😍

anonymous asked:

also Regina killed Marian; her lover's wife. and not once regretted it. and committed adultery with him. For me outlaw queen was as problematic as rumbelle.

And you’re entitled to your opinion. But I don’t share it, and honestly, this is the sort of thing you should probably post on your own blog, not in the ask of someone who ships OQ and isn’t generally interested in whether or not a ship is ~*~problematic~*~

Cursed 3

This has been up for awhile and i forgot to post it here.

She takes time off work.

She calls in sick while she licks her wounds.  Spends time telling herself over and over again that she stays away from the outside world because her injured hand will draw questions, questions that she’s too tired to answer over and over.

But the real reason she is holed up in her mansion has crystal blue eyes, a chiseled jawline, wears a slight, rugged beard, and one of the most aggravatingly sexy smirks she’s ever known.  The man who had made her feel the most comfortable with herself, made her feel valuable, the man who gave her all those feelings and now took them away, replaced them with dark, seething hatred.  She isn’t ready to face that.

But it’s almost worse sitting in her home and waiting for something to happen. Everytime the doorbell rings, she expects to find him, or an angry mob of people he may have told about her. Instead it’s Graham offering her some soup for the cold she’s claimed she is suffering from, or Whale dropping off the new proposed budget for the hospital because it needs immediate attention and just can’t wait.  And she finds she doesn’t much care for this, the feeling of dread, the feeling of waiting for something to happen.

Regina Mills is a woman of action, has never laid in waiting for danger to find her.  She faces it head on, takes a running start and dives in headfirst, caution to the wind.  

So on the fourth day, she readies herself for work, wearing a pristine, beautifully tailored pantsuit with a bright red silk camisole underneath.  It’s a bit hard to do her makeup and hair given that she is one handed and feeling a bit feverish, a bit shaky (not from her wounds, she tells herself, it’s just a side effect of lack of sleep).  But despite her one, shaking hand, she manages to make herself look presentable.  She doesn’t dream of wearing a more comfortable outfit, won’t think of wearing her makeup or hair more casual. She needs to look like Regina Mills, town mayor, today.  Needs to look like today is any other day, like she is strong, and confident and undamaged.

And she’s succeeded.  You wouldn’t notice anything is different or wrong unless you were to look past the crisp cuff of her suit jacket to see the hand that peaks out from under it is wrapped in a flesh colored bandage.  Few people will bother to look at her that closely.

She walks to Granny’s to stop for breakfast at the usual time, and yes, everything is the same.  She narrowly avoids bumping into a flustered Snow White, breezes by a preoccupied Archie, and stops to pet Pongo and scratch him behind the ears.  Pongo barks happily, though his nose nuzzles against her injured hand, sniffing wildly and planting little licks against her bandages.

“Pongo, stop that,” Archie says, as the dog presses against her further, “I’m sorry, he must smell food.”

Perhaps he smells the blood of her hand, or perhaps he smells the honey she continued to use when she redressed the wound.  Robin had found it acceptable, afterall.

Or perhaps Pongo, the only perceptive resident of Storybrooke, could sense she was hurting, and was offering her a friendly nuzzle of comfort.

“He’s fine,” she waves off Archie, who is tugging wildly at the leash, “Pongo means no harm, isn’t that right?”  She scratches behind his ears and smiles when Pongo wags his tail furiously.

She walks the rest of the way to the diner with her head held a bit higher.

The only difference in the day, as she can tell, is that she does not see Ruby wildly arguing with her Granny on the sidewalk.  Regina wonders if she’s late, if she’s missed the usual stand off regarding the morning shift.

But as she approaches the diner, she discovers the reason for the change.

Ruby is distracted.  

Robin is sitting at the counter, eggs over easy and bacon and toast, a mug full of what she assumes is coffee but hell, could be tea, and he’s talking to Ruby.

Flirting with Ruby.  

Ruby’s leaning over, elbows on the counter, giggling and making those dopey eyes she knows so well.

Apparently she and her soulmate also share the same taste in women.

She ignores the dull ache in her heart (it has no right to be there) and focuses on a place to sit to be unnoticed. That spot by the corner is open, she won’t be hiding from him, not completely.  She will just be having her breakfast some place quiet.

She won’t even need to walk past him to get to the table in the corner. Perfect.

But she forgets that the door to the diner is attached to a bell that rings, and god, she hates that, because the noise draws his attention instantly — eyes stare into hers, a deep, unabashed stare.  She meets his gaze in time to see him swallowing heavy.

He doesn’t break her stare until Ruby’s voice pipes up.

“Madam Mayor!  Take a seat!”  She motions to an empty seat by the bar, her seat, the one they always reserve for her, and no, that won’t do, not today, no.  She won’t sit in the seat right next to him.  “I’ll get your coffee ready.  Fresh pot, right?”

She clears her throat, “Ruby, I’m going to sit over here, if it’s just the same,” she motions to an open table by the window.  

“Sure, anyone joining you?”

“No, just need the quiet today.” She grabs an abandoned newspaper off of a near table.  Something to read.  That’s good.  A distraction is what she needs.

Ruby smiles, gathers utensils and a menu, directs her to the table, and prances off back behind the counter.

Robin’s eyes are back on her, dark and menacing.  She meets his gaze with a stare of her own, and a sly little smile, because, no, she won’t be intimidated.  Not by anyone.  Least of all him.

He breaks eye contact first to focus back on Ruby, muttering things that have her giggling and blushing. It’s all for her benefit, she knows, can tell by the sideways looks he gives to make sure she’s watching, to make sure she knows what he’s doing.

She tells herself she doesn’t care and focuses her attention on the crossword puzzle. It doesn’t bother her, the way his eyes look Ruby over, the way his hand touches down her arm, the way he is looking at her ass when she turns around to the pot of coffee.

It doesn’t bother her. Not at all.

Continue on FF.net

My thoughts about the season 6 premier

Okay, after spending the whole summer away from Tumblr, I was not totally convinced how I will feel when the new season starts. I decided to watch the episodes, but writing any more metas? Coming here and be a part of the fandom? I was not sure. I felt the show hurt my muse too much at the end of last season and months were not enough to recuperating from that. 

Then I watched the premier. And altough it was not stellar IMO, it was not the best episode of the series by far, I found it overall pretty good, with some truly amazing and unforgettable scenes and moments. Of course the fact that I am an Evil Regal and an OQ shipper, probably affected what scenes I found amazing and unforgettable. Others might liked other scenes. But I decided to share my thoughts with you, so let’s go on. 

The episode went on four separated threads and set the stage for at least 4 or more different storylines. These were:

1. The “Untold stories” part that promises us lots of new stories (season 1 style). 

2. Emma’s own “Savior” story, a vision and the inevitebility of fate. 

3. Rumple, Belle and Morpheus’s story.

4. Regina’s dealings with Robin’s death, Zelena, Zelena’s feeling about Regina’s decision to get rid of the Evil Queen. 

So how these aspects played out in this episode? 

Keep reading

They like to say – Swen are haters of OUAT.

No. That’s a biggest lie. We love OUAT. That’s exactly is a reason, why we so sad about leaving viewers. It’s hurt much – know that once you favorite show watched 7 millions and now lass  then 4. We screaming that Kitsis and Horowitz killing ouat, not because we hate ouat, because we hoped that it’s gets better. We hoped that they realize that something wrong in this easy and fix that. Because(surprise), we don’t like to see our favorite show losing and dyeing. Now not just us –OQ. Rumbelle and Snowing agree that OUAT become trash

Finding Home Verse

Part 1

This is going to a small verse - the number of chapters hasn’t been set but I know where this is going to go. It’s going to be angsty, mixed with some fluff/comfort/and family love. It’s an OQ story, but it’s really much more than that. Hopefully you all like it and will leave me with your thoughts.



It’s been eighteen years since he’s been here and it feels strange. To be walking along these sidewalks, passing by houses and shops he’d long forgotten. The town somehow seems less bright than his memories provided, a touch colder, and quieter, creating a rather eery feeling in his heart.

There are people that walk by him, a few stare for a second longer, trying to place him before moving on without any real care. It strikes him odd, that in a town where every face was known by everyone, no one seemed to take a second look at him, a stranger. He recognizes a few of them, kind of. The ginger doctor and his dog, both who walk as though a weight presses them down. The old woman and her granddaughter who barely take passing notice as the door chimes behind him.

It’s certainly not how he recalls Storybrooke, but then again, there is a lot he doesn’t remember. Not since that day. His brain has blocked a large portion of it out in some attempt to protect and shield him from the truth. He knows it too. The questions he’d asked that were avoided with sad eyes, names he’d use that no one else would, remarks which were pushed to the background.

Eventually the quiet just took over everything in his world. Why bother asking when no one will give a answer.

He supposes it’s why he came back. For answers. To figure out the what, and the why, to put some reasoning behind the holes in his mind. Sitting at the counter, he orders a hot chocolate and cinnamon, the spice familiar on his tongue and at least it is something he can recognize.

He’s not actually sure where to start. Who to ask, where to find those who can help him. It’s usual for him though. To be alone like this. Walking through life with uncertainty and loneliness as his closest companions. It’s been this way for a while now. He forgets how it felt before, when life was normal.

“Home” had become hollow. Everything was hushed, there was no laughter, no endless tales of adventure, and certainly no feeling of familiarity. Even if they told him it was where they were supposed to be. Back here. In this place. Not in that one. They belonged here. He belonged here.

It never felt like it. Not for one day did it remind him of home. Years ticked by, and the lightness in his heart dimmed. It was hard to find things to be cheerful about, a rarity if he even smiled. He can’t actually remember the last time he smiled, really smiled. Probably before they all left.

She used to smile. Had one of the most beautiful ones he had ever seen. Does she still smile?

There is so much he wonders about her. Far more he remembers too. She is what stuck, the one face cemented into his brain. The color of her hair, dark brown like the trees, matching her eyes, though if he concentrates hard enough he is certain they held flecks of sunshine. She smelled of roasted apples, and was always, always warm to the touch. On many nights he could hear her voice, gentle and kind, matched to a low rumbling laugh that echoed in her chest. He liked her laugh. Especially when she genuinely laughed. There are fuzzy memories of him laughing with them. With her.

He hasn’t laughed in years.

Downing the rest of his cocoa, he grabs his coat and toque, leaving what he hopes is enough cash to keep him in Granny’s good graces should things not exactly go as planned. He doesn’t actually have a plan, but he turns left out of the diner anyway, knowing the route by heart. Eighteen years and he knows it takes exactly 214 steps to get to her house; a left straight away, walk 68 steps, turn right and walk to the red light 87 steps away, another right, past the blue house, and 59 steps later there it is.

Stark white against the black night sky, a single porch light glowing dismally in the corner, every other window dark. What if she isn’t home? Will she even remember him? It’s an all too real fear that sparks in his heart as he stares up at the looming willow trees that frame her house. What if she doesn’t want to see him?

The iron gate is chill under his palm, creaks as it opens, he winces at the disruption into the silence of the night. 108. The gold numbers shine out like a beacon, tugging him forward with every step. A rush of excitement gushes through him just thinking about the chance she is beyond the familiar white oak framing and four pillars. For the first time in years, since he found the portal to get back, hope flickers. He’d traded everything personal possession (which wasn’t much) to a man with a strange hat, whose dark blue eyes drilled into him when he mentioned her name, who he was, why he wanted to go back and see her.

The door is cold as he traces the gold numbers, and the previous burst of elation slowly ebbs away, swallowed by trepidation once more. Eighteen years is a long time. There’s a definitely possibility she has moved on, has a new life, a life that doesn’t need him in it. His head hits the door with a rather loud thud. That wasn’t his intention, he’d planned to knock. His heart thunders as a light flickers on in what he remembers to be the den, muffled footsteps shift.

This is it.

For a second he is stunned by the strange tall blonde that opens the door, standing near as tall as he, a brimming fire behind bright accusing blue eyes. She glowers, and he shrinks, unaware of what words will appease this apparent guardian dragon. He’s never seen this woman before, would have certainly branded her scowling face in his mind as one to avoid.

“I-uh-I apologize M'lady.”

“Who are you?”

He steps away, unsteady and unsure of what to say. He shouldn’t have come back, this was a bad idea. She isn’t here. “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong address.” He turns, and his heart sinks into the cratering darkness, wrapping it’s cold hands around him like an old unwanted friend.

“Mal? Who’s at the door?”

He hears her before he see’s her.

That same velvet smooth voice that has been talking to him for near two decades. His eyes have shut on their own, cinching together as the ability to breathe suddenly becomes near impossible without a stabbing pain. Eighteen years he has heard his name in her voice. Eighteen years, he has wondered about her, thought about her, dreamed of her.

His heart pounds furiously, setting off his shaky nerves as her heels come to a clicking stop behind him as he hears her ask again. It floods back, every moment being in this place, with the family he lost long ago. A brother who suddenly vanished, the woman who’d become his mother, simply gone without warning. And his father, the one face that alluded his mind, a gray fogged silhouette, his Papa who never came back, never said goodbye.

He freezes, begs for some strength to stay upright and keep the burning tears at bay.

“Can I help you?”

He turns back to her and the night goes silent. And he waits, unable to find the courage to look at her fully, he just stares at the ground through blurred wet teary eyes. He could run. Spin around and bolt. Far away from her. His mind panics as he hears her heels click out onto the stone porch, her breath hitched and shaking.

This was a mistake. And his brain commands him to flee, but his feet refuse to budge.

“Oh. My. God.”

He feels the way her palm trembles as it finds his cheek, and she is still warm.


anonymous asked:

Me diz cmo puxar assunto cm um menino, n sei mais oq falar

filmes, bandas, séries, comida, fora temer…

anonymous asked:

To namorando virtualmente a 6 meses, e nesse sábado fiquei com um garoto e a gnt cnvrs bastante até hj, agr to apaixonada por ele... só q ele é meio galinha, n sei o que eu faço, devo contar pro meu namorado oq eu fiz e falar q amo o garoto? :/

Você traiu seu namorado, o certo é terminar. E quem gosta de galinha é fazendeiro.


anonymous asked:

Vc viu oq o Matheus respondeu pro outro anony? Q bixa

Sabe o que eu vi? Que tem alguém se doendo, mesmo sabendo que não namoramos. E outra coisa que eu vi. Chamar ele assim em anony é fácil ne? Pq não fala isso logado, ein? E você conhece ele pra falar isso? Acho que não, pois sei muito bem que ele é mais homem que mtos guris aqui